


quickly, but not too fast

by dakhtar



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Gen, Gladiolus playing peacekeeper, Nifleheim, Nifleheim Culture, Nifleheim OC's, Nifleheim Resistance (mentioned), Noctis is a Dick, Piano, Prompto Argentum is a Ray of Sunshine, Prompto Argentum is from Niflheim, Prompto Plays the Piano, Protective Ignis Scientia, World of Ruin, in last chapter, probably
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:40:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24829969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dakhtar/pseuds/dakhtar
Summary: (“Noct,” Prompto hisses, turning his back in a vain hope nobody will be able to see his panicked face. “Noct, this isnota ‘small party’! This is ahugefreakingevent!”)During a moonlit party of the rich and the richer, Prompto tries to blend in with the wallpaper and avoid causing a national scandal. Unfortunately for him, the evening's musical entertainment gets... cancelled. Andsomehow, Prompto ends up having to replace them. He should've refused to come, but hindsight, his Niff neighbour loves to say, is halfway down a couerl's throat.
Relationships: Gladiolus Amicitia & Prompto Argentum & Noctis Lucis Caelum & Ignis Scientia, Prompto Argentum & Ignis Scientia
Comments: 56
Kudos: 174





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this game came out in _2016_ and i've only now gotten into the fandom. I blame the amazing fanfics I've been devouring with no pause for the past few weeks, god _damn_. this started off as a quick "haha, i want prompto to play the piano and surprise everyone!" and tripled into niff culture and being a niff in a city that is _at war_ with the goddamn niffs and just became very, _very_ complicated very, _very_ quickly. par for the course, tbh.

“ _Noct_ ,” Prompto hisses, turning his back in a vain hope nobody will be able to see his panicked face. “Noct, this is _not_ a ‘small party’! This is a _huge_ freaking _event_!”

Noctis, the _asshole_ , just shrugs at him, completely unbothered in his finely tailored suit with a glass that must cost quadruple Prompto’s entire existence in his hand. It’s got bubbly apple juice in it – a drink Prompto’s sure probably costs, oh, only about _double_ Prompto’s entire existence. He’s too afraid to ask.

“It’s pretty small to me, dude,” the prince replies, sounding two seconds shy of falling asleep. He even yawns, making no move to hide it like a decent human being would, let alone the _Crown Prince_ of the _entire kingdom_. “Stop panicking. You’re fine.”

“I am _not_ fine,” Prompto wheezes, remembering to straighten his back, because _posture_ is a thing with rich people, isn’t it? Shiva’s _tits_ , are his shoulders in the right slope? Is he holding them too high? Too low? “Am I even _allowed_ in here?”

He’s only been friends with Noctis for just over three years now. This’ll be the second time he’s even been in the Citadel, and the previous time had been after _months_ of planning and vetting and Noct’s advisor, Ignis, peering into Prompto’s very soul through his intimidating glasses. And now he’s in a ridiculously oversized _ballroom_ (it’s an actual ballroom!) with _delegates_ floating around making small talk and _women_ wearing oversized jewellery laughing behind gloved hands and the _King_ ( _the King(!),_ a part of him screams internally) right in the middle shaking hands and smiling politely.

He’s _absolutely_ not allowed to be in here, he can feel it all the way down to his littlest toe, and Noctis just brought him here last minute because he didn’t want to be _bored_.

“Sure, you are,” said prince mumbles, rolling his eyes like Prompto’s being ridiculous. Prompto! Being ridiculous! “If anyone asks just say you’re here under my permission.”

He swallows back the noise that wants to escape him, pretty sure it’ll sound like death itself rather than anything actually resembling a language. He lets Noctis bully him into facing the room again, back to the wall, and numbly takes the glass (how expensive could it possibly be? No, dear gods no, _don’t ask_ ) that Noctis passes to him from a waitress walking by.

“Just relax,” Noctis tells him, completely unconcerned about his friend’s utter panic. “Nobody cares, man.”

Prompto swallows down a gulp of bubbly apple juice, wonders briefly if the sharp tang he tastes is the sharp tang of money or if he’s hallucinating, and struggles to get it past the knot that constitutes a tie around his throat. The entire suit he’s wearing is one Noctis had thrown at him last minute from his own wardrobe, one an anxious man who’d turned out to be the _Crown Prince’s personal freaking tailor_ had pinned down with _literal pins_ to try and get it to fit Prompto’s slighter frame.

The tailor had been near tears in the middle of it, bemoaning having to do last minute “butchery” and how it was an insult to his craft and if only the “prince had just let me known in due time I could have made an _amazing_ suit that would have fit this young man _so good_ , just- _ugh_ , look at his shoulders, Prince Noctis! Look at them! So broad! And his _waist_ -” the tailor had cried, throwing his hands in the air, “-his waist alone I would cloth for free! A suit would have fit this young man _so well_ , why do you _always_ _do this to me_.”

He can still feel the pins – safety pins, thank the gods – cold against his heated flesh when he moves even slightly. It forces his spine straight, which is _good_ , because every part of his soul wants to wither in this quiet corner and curl in on itself, and that is _not good_.

“Crap,” Noctis sighs, eyes on something. “Looks like I gotta go. My turn to do the rounds. Here, hold this.” And he just hands over his empty glass and _leaves_.

Prompto, two glasses in either hand, stares after him, mouth open.

Noctis did _not_ just abandon him.

Noctis _did not_ just abandon him in a Citadel _party_ he was _absolutely not supposed to be in_.

Worst. Friend. _Ever_.

He shifts nervously where he stands, finishes off his own drink, and then realises he’s just standing there with two empty glasses and no idea what to do with them. A waitress passes by, and Prompto almost cries in thanks when they take pity on him and take the two glasses away. Suddenly though, he’s standing in his designated corner nervously with both hands out and, shit, now he’s excruciatingly aware of them. What exactly is he supposed to do with them, though? Can he put them in his pockets? Is that allowed, or is it an unforgivable faux pas? Is he going to offend a rich mogul and his equally rich wife if he does it and end up in the dungeons?

He doesn’t want to risk it, so he just leaves them by his side – and then, awkwardly, folds them at his back. Yes, good, now he looks like he’s a professional at least – he crosses them at the wrist, and it helps straighten his posture as well, and maybe now his shoulders are at the correct angle and he won’t get executed for mortally offending someone’s sixth grandpa five family trees over.

Finally pleased at least with the way he’s standing, Prompto takes the time to actually take in the room fully. He skips over the people, somehow already numbed to how ridiculously _rich_ their clothes look, at how _impossibly soft_ some of the materials they’re wearing seems to be and at the mildly concerning thought of whether or not this is reality or just really good CGI. He can faintly make out guards at the perimeters, the same darkly clothed dudes that are always lurking behind Noctis’ shadow whenever they’re out and about, and makes a game of trying to find as many as he can. He gives up once he starts counting the same dudes, because number thirty six and forty eight keep switching places, and he’s not sure if twelve actually exists or is a hallucination.

Next is the King himself, with Noctis now at his side, both of them somehow always right under the main spotlight, glittering like they’re the main love interest in an anime. Clarus, the King’s Shield, stands at the King’s shoulder, and Gladio, Noctis’ Shield, echoes at Noct’s. Gladio’s actually wearing a shirt, for once, and he looks almost as uncomfortable as Prompto feels, which actually makes Prompto feel a bit better.

Behind them, on a raised stage, is a woman with a harp, plucking at the strings to make a beautiful sound that’s somehow both loud and quiet. It blends seamlessly into the general atmosphere of the place, as expensive as the gold bracelets clinking off women’s wrists and the glint of champagne in expensive flutes. He knows the champagne is the main drink being served to guests, and knows the apple juice floating around is specific to the King and Prince, and brought to them by specific waiters alone to avoid contamination.

Sometimes, he still struggles to wrap his head around that, actually. That Noctis is a _Prince_ , and people will absolutely try killing him by spiking his drink.

It’s wild. And _weird_.

The women with the harp though grabs his attention, her long blonde hair strewn over one bare shoulder. Her white dress makes the entire picture almost angelic, especially against the backdrop of the ballroom’s golden colour scheme, so different from the rest of the Citadel that deals almost primarily in silver.

He thinks Noct mentioned something about this party including people from Nifleheim, something about some rich people that had left Nifleheim and gone to Tenebrae, or Accordo, and willing to do business with Insomnia. He’d definitely been more concerned with the tailor losing his damn mind over Prompto’s legs than whatever the hell Noct had been on about, so he’s not all too sure.

Apparently, he has great legs. He’d told the tailor that he ran. The tailor had almost cried and told him to definitely carry on running.

(“Uh,” he’d replied awkwardly, “thanks? I’ll, uh, carry on, then.”)

“An interesting interpretation of Devulvy,” a voice pulls him from his thoughts. “Would you not say?”

Prompto startles, and then does a mental fist pump when the rigidity of his posture means he doesn’t really move all that much save for a slight jolt. The man that’s somehow appeared next to him is _huge_ , towering over Prompto by a good head or so with the most severe expression Prompto’s ever seen. The deep lines at either side of his mouth make him look disapproving, and the sharp eyes that dig into Prompto are almost as soul-piercing as Ignis’, stormcloud grey as opposed to Ignis’ jade green.

Prompto licks suddenly dry lips, catching himself before he lets the silence get too long, and awkwardly replies, “Uuh, yeah. It sounds amazing.”

The man’s disapproving mouth lines disapprove harder. Crap, wrong answer then. “Hmm… Perhaps not quite so. But I suppose my own distaste of the instrument might be colouring my perspective. I am more of a piano man, myself.”

Perking up, Prompto’s hands fall at his side as he eagerly says, “Oh yeah, me too! The piano’s just great. You can make so many different sounds at such different intensities. It’s great.”

To his surprise, the imposing man’s stern expression actually softens, his pale blonde eyebrows rising in surprise as he regards Prompto thoughtfully. His hair is slicked back, professional, with not a single strand out of place. It curls at his neck in artful locks, as pale as his eyebrows. He’s dressed in a charcoal suit, a short burgundy cloak over one shoulder, one that doesn’t even reach to his waist. It’s weird and unusual, obviously foreign, and Prompto wonders for a moment if this is one of the people from Nifleheim.

“You play the instrument then, young man?”

“Uuuh…” Prompto panics. “Not well? My next-door neighbour’s been teaching me for years. Says I play like a dying Anak stuck in a whirlpool.”

To Prompto’s surprise, the man _laughs_ , a boisterous noise that rumbles out of his trunk of a chest, and it startles Prompto and pretty much everyone in a five mile radius of them. The man’s laughing sounds surprised, as if he’d been caught off guard by Prompto’s words, but he quickly composes himself, using a finger thicker than Prompto’s wrist to wipe away a tear from an eye. “My boy,” he booms, actually _smiling_ , suddenly looking less intimidating and more like a very fuzzy lumberjack. “I have not heard that saying in _years_. An old Nifleim phrase, not one the younger generation say much nowadays. Your neighbour must be from the northern parts of Nifleheim. Yurvik, perhaps? And what of you? I’d put you at Trondval, maybe.”

Eyes wide, Prompto grabs his fingers behind his back and holds on tight, paling a little at all the eyes on them both. “Uh,” he repeats again, eyes darting around for help. He sees Noct still with the King, neither of them noticing him, and Gladio’s- oh thank gods, Gladio’s looking at him, and he looks concerned, and _thank the Six,_ the big guy nods his head at Ignis who’s making a beeline for them. Praise Shiva. “I actually grew up here. Adopted here. No idea of, uh, where I’m originally from.”

The large man frowns, pleasant expression turning sad for a moment. “Ah, yes,” he says quietly, deep voice still somehow rumbling even with the sadness to it. “I had heard many of our children ended up in similar situations.” He places a large hand on Prompto’s shoulder, squeezes it gently, and says, “You have my apologies, young man. It is my generation that has forced you out of your home. I can only hope there will be a future where you may return and learn of your roots.”

Before Prompto can reply, the man slaps a hand against his back – almost breaking Prompto in half – and then, much more jovially, announces, “But enough of that! What’s done is done! I must return to the King and his son. I daresay I believe I have an answer for his Highness after all.”

And then the man just- disappears.

 _How_.

“Prompto,” Ignis’ cultured voice says, pulling Prompto from staring into the throng of people the man has somehow disappeared into. Nobody that big should be able to disappear that well. _Nobody_. “Are you alright?”

There’s genuine concern in the bespectacled man’s voice, something that still feels strange to hear from him considering that Prompto’s pretty sure Ignis doesn’t approve of him still. But concern there is. “Uh, yeah,” he says carefully, clearing his throat when his voice embarrassingly breaks. “I guess? Gods, I hope I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“On the contrary,” Ignis hums, thoughtful eyes trailing towards the crowd, to where the large man has magically reappeared at the side of other large, blonde haired people dressed similarly to him. “I believe you’ve done outstandingly well.”

Prompto stares at Ignis, blinking. “Huh?”

“That was the ex-Commodore of Nifleheim you were speaking to, the man who led a resistance against the Empire and was exiled for it. He is based in Altissia now, and though he himself does not own much – a consequence of angering the Empire, no doubt – he is a voice for the organisations and companies we deem to make trade with that are based outside of the Empire’s immediate reach.”

“Oh,” Prompto hears himself say distantly. “Uh, okay.”

One eyebrow raised, Ignis looks at him considering. “He is also the main voice of dissent against the trade agreement.”

Prompto _actually_ feels blood escape his face, and he must look faint because Ignis’ own eyes widen in alarm and a gloved hand is quickly placed on Prompto’s shoulder. “Ifrit’s orange-tinted _balls_ ,” Prompto blurts, “Have I made it worse? Are they definitely not going to agree now? Because I embarrassed the Prince? Did I embarrass the _King_? _Did I embarrass the entirety of Lucis???_ ”

Eyes wide, Ignis takes a step to stand in front of him, blocking his view of the ballroom, and more importantly, blocking the ballroom’s view _of him_. His other hand is on Prompto’s other shoulder, both now holding him in place, and the advisor ducks his head ever so slightly to be more on level with Prompto. “Prompto,” he says in his perfectly careful way, “ _Breathe_.”

Prompto breathes. Panics, and breaths. Mainly panics.

“You have done no such thing,” Ignis tells him sternly, expression confident. “You have done exemplary. Especially as none of us had the foresight to give you any sort of training on ballroom manners or etiquettes. I believe your conversation with the exiled Commodore has made him more agreeable to the trade agreement. You have _not_ embarrassed the Crown, nor have you embarrassed Lucis. You’ve done wonderfully. Now _breathe_ , please.”

Prompto breathes. A little less panicked, mainly confused, but now capable of breathing a lot easier.

Ignis must agree because he lets up a little, clearing his throat a little awkwardly as he stands straight and pulls at his perfectly in place shirt to smooth down non-existent wrinkles. He looks as amazing as always, clothes _just_ that bit _more_ richer and sleeker than his usual, and his glasses have a brand name on the side that Prompto is studiously ignoring because _holy Ifrit on a pogo stick_ , they’re _expensive_.

“Now,” hums Ignis thoughtfully. “I believe the Crown Prince should be done with his duties for the night. Ser Argentum,” Prompto straightens the _hell up_ , “Would you be so kind as to escort His Highness?”

The single raised eyebrow and sly look are ones Prompto is slowly growing familiar with, usually right before Ignis lets loose a clever pun or a savage retort that leaves Gladio and Noct opening and closing their mouths like drowning fishes. It always has a pavlovian response on Prompto, makes him grin at the fact that Ignis can be _mischievous_ , and that he’s actually being allowed to see it.

Nodding, Prompto gratefully lets Ignis lead him to the only set of doors in the ballroom, where Gladio is equally leading Noctis to, and feels his shoulders finally stop being rigid straight as soon as he steps out.

He’s all but bouncing on his knees, excited at the prospect of _freedom_ , when Gladio quietly asks, “You okay there, Blondie?”

He is. He’s actually doing great.

“If you ever drag me to another _small party_ , Noct,” he replies with a bright grin. “I’m going to rewrite each and every single one of your save files for _every single game_.”

And Noct’s horrified expression and Gladio’s burst of laughter definitely goes a long way to help.

#

“Thanks for the ride,” Prompto beams, luxuriating in the feeling of his own cheaply cleaned clothes as he bounces out of the car.

Crowe waves him off, “No problem, kid. We outsiders gotta stick together.” Behind her, squeezed in tight like sardines, the four Glaives bicker and argue over who’ll get to sit in Prompto’s vacated seat up front. Crowe rolls her eyes at them, and shoos Prompto away with a hand.

He waves as he turns to leave, crossing the intersection where his and the Glaive’s route diverges. Him to the Niff area, and them to Little Galahad.

(“The Niff area?” Ignis had frowned about a year ago, suddenly zeroing in on Prompto. “What do you mean, ‘the Niff area’?”

Confused, Prompto had pointed in the general direction of home and said, “Y’know, the area next to that school that caught on fire? You turn left on the intersection? The one on sixth?”

Still frowning, Ignis had said, “I believe that area is officially called Viridus, in lieu of the large natural park there.”

“Oh, that park was bulldozed over,” Prompto had explained helpfully, “Made into a pretty big prison.”

The explanation didn’t seem to help. In fact, it made Ignis’ displeasure that much more apparent.

“I think he’s more confused about why you called it the ‘Niff’ area, kid,” Gladio had helpfully pointed out, his own expression turning serious as he glanced between the two.

Prompto had only grown even more confused. “Because that’s where all the Niffs are?”

Ignis’ expression said that was the wrong answer. “And what of the school?” The advisor pushed, though the tone of his voice made the question sound more like a demand. “The one that had burnt down? Has it been rebuilt?”

Wide eyed, Prompto had responded, “Uh, no. It’s still closed off.”

“That school burnt down _a year ago_ ,” Ignis had stressed, disbelief heavy in his voice. “Where did all the students go? Where are the _teachers_?”

Uuuuh. Prompto had only blinked, because _he_ didn’t know. Except- “I think a couple of them have transferred over to the other schools. I knew a girl, Vera, who was set to graduate. Think she said her entire class tried to find jobs since none of them could graduate anymore – nobody would take them in so late in the school year.”

And Ignis’ face had _spasmed_ , then, a harsh noise escaping his throat as he’d suddenly grabbed up all the papers he’d been working on and _stormed off_. Prompto had stared after him, worried he’d said something wrong, and helplessly turned to Gladio for any sort of explanation.

“Don’t worry ‘bout it,” Gladio shrugged, knowing full well that would only make Prompto _actually_ worry. “Seriously, kid,” the big guy soothed, bookmarking the page he was on before standing up, “Iggy’s probably just gone off to research something. He doesn’t like not knowing what’s happening in the city. You up for a run?”

It was late in the afternoon, all of them at Noctis’ place waiting for the prince to wake up from his post-school nap. No way would Ignis _storm off_ before making sure to feed Noctis. No way it was _nothing to worry about_. And Gladio’s expression said he knew _exactly_ that, but- maybe it was something Prompto wasn’t allowed to know.

Three weeks later, he noticed the burnt out husk of the school had been cleared up. A week after that, workers were on the ground, and the place was sectioned off with boards exclaiming works in the progress to rebuild. The entire neighbourhood was in a tizzy, rumours going around of the school being even _better_ than it was before, and parents excitedly chattered that maybe they wouldn’t have to travel so far to drop their kids off at school again, or pay ridiculous amounts for childcare.

He never does figure out what pissed Ignis off so much, but from then on, the Royal Advisor goes to great pains to keep track of everything that’s happening in the area, much to Prompto’s confusion. It takes him some time, but soon after, he decides it must be Ignis’ way of showing he cares, by making sure to ask him about his rent and insurance and other nitpicky things. It makes him happy, that such a great guy like Ignis would ask if he’d ever gotten his stolen bicycle back.

Gladio just grins, looking entertained. But then again, Gladio’s kind of a weirdo, so Prompto pays him no attention.)

He doesn’t actually _live_ in the Niff area proper though, just outside it. His parents avoid the line of demarcation between the two neighbourhoods almost religiously, but Prompto cuts through it easily enough ever since realising it’ll save his commute to school an extra thirty minutes. He waves at some familiar faces – Briltus, the owner of a small bakery that should be closed by now, gives him a hot bun straight out of the oven and ruffles his hair, old lady Odessa waves her stick angrily at him, like she does every time she sees him, still not over the time Prompto had tripped over her weird goblin statue that had just been _out there_ in the middle of the street.

The line between the two neighbourhoods – Viridus, as Ignis would stress, and Providence – is a clearly distinct line. The grittiness of Viridus smooths out to the maintained Providence, the street lights actually work on this side of the city, whereas Viridus – the Niff area, Prompto’s mind automatically corrects – always has flickering lights and a whole bunch that have just given up the ghost.

And here, people don’t wave at him.

Hunching in under his jacket, Prompto finishes off the hot bun and runs up two steps at a time in his apartment building, letting himself in with a key once he reaches his door. He shouts a greeting, hears it echo back to him indicating nobody else is home, and sighs.

His parents have been home less and less.

Before he can really settle in, loud banging echoes off his door. Prompto goes to peer through the hole, sees a familiar bed of wild, white hair, and opens the door before the person can try breaking it down again.

“You damn kids and your lack of hearing!” The old man on the other side huffs. “I’ve been knocking for thirty-five minutes!”

Prompto holds back the urge to roll his eyes, even as he uselessly says, “I just came in, and you _just_ knocked.”

The old man raps his cane at Prompto’s leg, Ignoring Prompto’s loud squawk of protest with a rough, “Don’t you talk back to an elder, _yunya_. Now, come!” And then just ambles away to the open door opposite Prompto’s own.

Rubbing his smarting leg, Prompto groans loudly but follows anyway, because Old Man Valter’s been dragging Prompto left and right since as early as he can remember, and telling him no is downright impossible.

His apartment layout echoes Prompto’s own, but that’s where the similarities end. Valter is one of the few Niff’s Prompto knows that doesn’t actually live in the Niff area proper, though he’s close enough that it’s just pedantic to differentiate the two. His home is decorated loudly in echoes of his homeland – a map of Nifleheim spans a third of one wall, and pictures are strewn about of old faces and older landscapes. On one side, taking up an entire wall, sits a grand piano, too large for the apartment and way too squished in, but there it sits, as it’s done for more than a decade.

Valter claimed to have dug it up from a landfill with his bare hands, dragged it all the way to the building, and then nabbed a couple Galahdians that had been loitering nearby to do the heavy lifting for him. He boasted of painstakingly restoring it with his own two hands, as every man worth his weight should, until it was as fit as a fiddle.

“Fit as Ifrit’s firm pecs,” he’d actually said. Eight year old Prompto had choked on the mint tea the man had given him.

Now the man pours steaming tea into two mugs, the sharp, familiar bite of mint already reaching Prompto from where he stands in the darkened living room. It’s past midnight by now, and the only light filtering into the apartment is from the still open door, illuminating in from the hallway outside. Valter confirms his thought when he pokes his cane irritably at the light hanging from the ceiling, bitterly saying, “Damn thing went out again.”

A stab of guilt hits Prompto, the thought of the old man, hair and eyebrows bone white, sitting in the dark room waiting for Prompto to come home painful. Dutifully, Prompto grabs the stool he always uses to get to the high parts of Valter’s home, accepts the replacement light Valter hands him, and sets to changing out the light. Soon, the living room’s lit up as it should be, and Valter raps his cane against Prompto’s thigh, looking satisfied when Prompto wobbles dangerously and almost falls to his no doubt death.

The old man’s gonna get him killed one day.

“Sit,” he commands, voice harsh, pointing at the table. “Drink. You are too skinny.”

Rolling his eyes, Prompto sits at the table and holds the warm mug, inhaling the now familiar scent of mint. “Three years ago you were telling me I was so fat I could drown a whole catoblepas.”

Valter _laughs_ , the wrinkles deepening in the corners of his eyes in mirth, and wipes away fake tears as he chortles. “Ah, yes, good times. And look at you now, you are too skinny. The _wind_ could drown _you_.”

Every time any of the neighbourhood kids had called him fat, any time his parents commented on his weight with a frown, whenever he would look in the mirror and see his reflection, Prompto had felt horrible. Valter, despite almost always saying things that sounded _infinitely worse_ , always said them in a way that was strangely… not.

“You are big,” he used to say, even as he’d push his over sugared biscuits towards him. “And what? Weight can change. You are a growing _malchik_. It is not how big that is the problem, but if it is a _good_ big. You wheeze when running. That is no good.” And he’d rap the cane against the ground by Prompto’s feet, delighting in his evil ways of making Prompto startle at unexpected movement.

Tea now finished, Valter struggles up to his feet, hissing and holding his back as he gets up. He makes his way to the piano, sits at a sofa squeezed in next to it, and rasps his cane against the stool. “Sit. We must practice.”

Eyes widening, Prompto stares at the piano, then looks around at the living room for a clock. He finds one that cheerily tells him it’s nearing one in the morning, and absolutely _not_ a time to be playing the piano. “Uh, don’t you think it’s a bit late for that?”

Valter is having none of it. “ _Sit_ ,” he insists, hitting his cane against the stool again. “Never too late to practice. Ten years I have been teaching you and you still play like a horny Zu. _Akh_.”

“Dude,” Prompto tries, wincing in disgust at Valter’s words, “the neighbours are going to file a noise complaint. _Again_.”

“ _Akh_ ,” Valter repeats, completely unbothered. “They will shut their mouth if they know what is good for them. Where _I_ came from-”

“-Okay, _okay_ ,” Prompto quickly cuts him off, _not_ ready for another meandering five hour lecture about the good old days of Valter’s youth, with flavourful opinions about _Prompto_ ’s generation and their lack of anything good. “Fine. It’s your apartment number they’ll be complaining about, old man. _Ouch_!”

He doesn’t leave until six in the morning, every attempt at ending the sudden teaching session being met with a cane threateningly held in his face. By the time he _does_ leave, the world outside is bright and airy, and Prompto’s fingers and shoulders ache something fierce.

Thank the Six it’s a Sunday, he thinks, sprawling onto his bed face first.

Screw that old man.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no beta we die like caelums.

Having graduated from high school, Prompto is fortunate enough not to have anything even remotely similar to homework. He does have a job – three of them, actually – and classes he painstakingly takes that occasionally give something _similar_ to homework, but he refuses to think of them as homework.

For one thing, he actually _signed up_ for said classes, and for another, he’s _paying_ for it.

(“It’s homework,” Noct bluntly disagrees, staring at him blankly. “It’s fucking homework, Prom.”)

It’s been about two days since the nerve-wracking ‘small’ party, and he’s just finishing up the _assignments_ he’s been given ( _not_ homework) when there’s strong knocking on his door. It’s not violent enough to be Valter, who he saw this morning terrorising a stray cat, nor is it intimidating enough to be his landlord.

Frowning, Prompto goes to the door and peers through the hole, surprise flitting across his expression when he realises that it’s Gladio instead. He opens the door, boggling at the image of the Crown Prince’s Shield, shirtless, lounging in his doorway, and stares at him.

“You gonna let me in or what, kid?” Gladio asks, completely comfortable in his shirtless glory.

Startling, Prompto steps aside, scrambling out of the way when he realises the gangway is too small for both him and Gladio to stand in. He rushes back into the apartment, picking up stray things strewn about, and thanks the Six the Tenebraen woman that lives one floor above him has beaten cleanliness into him by the time he was eleven. It’s not as _clean_ as she would demand, but for an eighteen year old boy living mostly on his own, it’s pretty alright, he thinks.

Gladio’s eyebrows rise as he looks around, and apparently he agrees as well if the way he says, “Huh, pretty clean,” is any sign.

“Uh, yeah.” Prompto replies awkwardly, not sure how to reply to it, but happy nonetheless. “Dude, you want, uh, tea or something? Wasn’t expecting you.”

Gladio shakes himself, forcing his attention from taking in the relatively small apartment, and instead says, “Actually, no, I’m here to pick you up. Prince’s orders.”

Huh? “Huh?”

“Yeah, Noctis says you have to come to the agreement signing or something.”

“The… what?”

“The agreement signing. Remember, with the Niffs?”

Prompto stares at Gladio, definitely not remembering. “What?”

“The trade agreement,” Gladio slowly says, staring at Prompto like it’s _Prompto_ that’s missing something. “For fuck’s sake, Noct didn’t tell you, did he?”

Shaking his head, Prompto actually goes to pull out his phone, look at it, and confirm that Noctis indeed did _not_ tell him anything about Niffs. His last message, from last night, reads: _If I burnt the Citadel down, could I be charged with arson? As the prince? Hypothetically, of course._

Prompto had replied: _Dude, the secret agents that keep track of all of our conversations are going to read this and blame me, man. Not cool. Also, maybe? It would depend on if the King is the one charging you. Don’t think anyone else can charge you, dude._

“The trade agreement,” Gladio sighs, running a hand through his hair, “you know, with the Niffs, that party Noct dragged you to? Yeah, so they’ve agreed to actually, y’know, _agree_ , and the signing party’s today. Noct was _supposed_ to tell you because the guy you were talking to before, the ex-Commodore guy? Yeah, he said he enjoyed talking to ‘that bright young man’. Which is you, by the way. So you have to be there.”

Wide eyed, Prompto stares at Gladio, then looks down at himself. He’s wearing a blue t-shirt – there’s a stain in the bottom right corner he never noticed – and grey sweatpants. His toes peek out from beneath the too long pants, and he knows his hair’s in complete disarray from running his hands through it like crazy.

Gladio must read him like a book, because he says, “Don’t worry. The party’s tonight. Enough time to spruce you up.”

Not a, “if you want to come,” or a, “you’re invited but can say no”. _Enough time to spruce you up._

“I can’t say no thank you, can I?”

Gladio grins, half apologetic, mostly amused. “Not if we don’t want to offend the ex-Commodore.”

Prompto sighs.

#

The tailor – the _Crown Prince’s personal freaking tailor_ – grabs Prompto by the bicep and _kidnaps him_ as soon as he steps into Noctis’ place in the Citadel. He doesn’t even get out a hello, only spots Ignis and Noctis in the living room, both looking equally bewildered by Prompto’s kidnapping, and is suddenly in another place standing on a raised platform with fabric flying in his face.

He has absolutely no idea how long he’s there, brain too full with how many things are happening, struggling to breathe past the tape and the fabrics and the _pins_ poking into him _at every freaking corner_. The tailor is besides himself, and there’s another tailor somewhere in there, a woman he thinks, who pops in and pops out and- gods, maybe she doesn’t actually exist and Prompto’s hallucinating again. Maybe she’s the twelve Crownsguard he thought he kept seeing before.

He’s finally shoved into a seat, somehow back in his own rumpled clothes, and only catches the tail end of the tailor telling him he’ll have the clothes ready by the night before the man leaves.

“Ah,” Ignis says ten minutes later, head appearing through a doorframe for a moment before the rest of his body follows. “There you are.”

Prompto blinks owlishly at him, still not particularly sure of what reality exactly he’s in.

Ignis grimaces sympathetically, pats Prompto on the shoulder consolingly, and says, “There, there.”

Somehow, the vaguely condescending manner of it actually settles Prompto.

“Come along now,” the advisor suggests, tilting his head towards the door. “I believe the tailors are, ahem, finished with you.”

#

He thinks about refusing to attend the party. He thinks about the huge man with the pale blonde hair’s boisterous laughter and the fact he’d been exiled from his country. He thinks about Gladio’s words, about him and the other members of his delegation being offended if he weren’t there.

Mostly, he thinks about when he’s next free so he can break into Noctis’ apartment and overwrite every single one of his saves.

The party is in full swing once more, this time on a random rooftop Prompto hadn’t even _known_ existed in the Citadel. Fairy lights are strung everywhere, there’s a bar to the far right, and Insomnia spreads below them like a tapestry of twinkling stars and nightlife.

Instead of a woman with a heavenly harp this time, there’s a singular grand piano on a raised pedestal, and a man gently presses on the keys to create something beautiful.

He’s mostly hiding behind the bar, nursing a too expensive flute with apple juice ( _again_ ) half full. Thankfully, he hasn’t been spotted by anyone yet, and Noctis – the _traitor_ – has already abandoned him to do his princely duties. He thinks he sees Gladio’s dad notice him at one point, one eyebrow cocking in question before Prompto ducks out of view, but other than that he’s clear.

For a bit, he entertains the idea of standing with one of the Crownsguard stationed around, but unlike the Kingsglaive he’s seen around the city and the Citadel and gotten on well with, the Crownsguard forever remain wary of him, expressions stony.

Probably because they’re all proper Lucians.

He is too, as far as he knows. His parents are, anyway. Both born and bred in Insomnia, with the paperwork to prove it. It’s just _Prompto’s_ paperwork that’s a bit sketchy, starting only in an orphanage when he’s already four years old, and nothing hinting at before. It wouldn’t even be a concern if blonde hair wasn’t such an outlier amongst Lucian’s, painting Prompto as an outsider.

The fact that all the actual non-Lucians think he’s a Niff doesn’t help.

But Prompto doesn’t care. He’s long since learnt to shrug it off. His paperwork says he’s Lucian and nothing else, and that’s good enough for him. There’s nothing wrong with being a Niff, either – Valter’s bad leg is living proof that just because you come from somewhere, doesn’t mean you agree with it – and Galahdians are _insane_. In a good way. Suicidal, but also somehow in a good way.

(Crowe drives like Ifrit himself is on her heels, and the restaurants in Little Galahad take _spicy_ as a _challenge._ )

He wouldn’t mind finding out he’s either.

A commotion catches his attention. Prompto peeks out from his place next to the bar, pretending to be one of the staff (they’re nice, they can obviously tell he doesn’t belong). He just catches sight of the man at the piano being hustled away, bent over something – his hand? Ignis looks murderous from nearby, and is storming in Prompto’s general direction though not towards him, and has what looks like low, harsh words with someone that might be the event manager or something.

Prompto quietly makes his way over with a full glass of apple juice, hands it to a stressed Ignis when it looks like the conversation has ended, and smiles weakly when the royal advisor gives him a thankful look.

That thankful look turns to disappointment when he throws back the glass and realises it’s just apple juice.

“Probably shouldn’t get drunk, dude,” Prompto laughs quietly, amused at the expression.

Sighing, Ignis agrees with a nod. “Yes, I believe you’re right. I must, after all, find another form of musical entertainment for the night.”

“What happened to that guy?”

Ignis scowls. “One of the patrons dropped her glass, and it just happened to break all over the poor man’s hand.” At Prompto’s horrified look, Ignis quickly reassures, “He’s had a potion. He’s just on his way to the Citadel doctors to make certain there are no lasting injuries, which there shouldn’t be.”

Oh. Oh good. It would suck if the man’s entire livelihood had been destroyed because of a glass of champagne.

“Got any ideas for the music, then?” He asks, noticing how empty the piano looks on it’s lone pedestal.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Ignis shakes his head. “For all my tutoring, learning a musical instrument was not one of them. An oversight, no doubt. But you know what they say about hindsight.”

Oh. Yeah. Valter always bitched about it. “Hindsight is half way down a coeurl’s throat.”

Ignis stares at him, eyebrows raised. “Where on Eos did you hea-”

Loud, boisterous laughter interrupts them both, startling even Ignis. When they turn in the direction of it, Prompto’s mind screams _how???_ because it’s the man from before again, the ex-Commodore, and _how_ does a man _this big_ sneak up on _both of them_?

Even Ignis looks small compared to him, having to strain his neck to look at the man’s face, and Prompto can absolutely tell the Royal Advisor is feeling incredibly off-footed by the whole thing by the widening of his green eyes.

“A fine saying!” The ex-Commodore booms, trying to break Prompto’s back again by slapping it heartily with a big hand. “Never did I understand the twenty-twenty Lucian’s spoke off. There is no greater regret than being halfway through a damn coeurl’s digestive tract, afterall.”

“Ah,” Ignis stutters, roughly clearing his throat and taking two steps back to accommodate his neck. “Ser Asmund, forgive me, I had not noticed you there.”

The ex-Commodore – Asmund? – chuckles, grey eyes glittering as he peers down at them both from his lofty height of well over six feet. “You are the Prince’s Royal Advisor, are you not? Ignis Scientia. Yes, I have heard much of you. Lucis has done well in securing such a talented young man. I believe your family line originates in Tenebrae, does it not?”

Fingers pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, Ignis quickly confirms, “Ah, yes. The main family is indeed in Tenebrae, yes.”

Oh. Prompto hadn’t actually known. Did that mean Ignis’ family was in Tenebrae as well? Huh, explains why he’s never heard of any other Scientia. Gladio’s entire family was here, but he’s never heard Ignis mention any family. That kinda sucks.

“A Tenebraen and a young Niff,” Asmund booms, slamming a hand on Prompto’s shoulder companiably. “The young Lucian Prince has made himself some fascinating friends. And _you_ , young man! You did not tell me you were the Prince’s friend!”

Prompto wheezes, struggling not to cough up a lung at the force behind the friendly pats. Ignis, bless his spectacled soul, comes to his rescue. “Ah yes, Prompto here has been a good, close friend of the Prince for some time now. They attended schooling together.”

“And what a surprise that had been to hear!” The large Nifleim enthuses. “I had not thought Lucis would even be comfortable with their darling Prince in a school with another Nifleim, yet alone allow him to befriend one! My darling wife, Vela, always said I was too harsh on my opinion of you Lucians. If I had known before, why, I would have encouraged this trade agreement long ago!”

Ignis’ expression does something strange, his eyes darting to Prompto and the ex-Commodore and back again. “Ah, forgive me, Ser Asmund. But I’m afraid Prompto does not, ah, originate from Nifleheim. He is Lucian, Ser.”

Asmund waves off Ignis dismissively. “Ah, yes, this young man told me the story. Adopted into the Lucian system, no knowledge of where he hails from. Are your guardians Lucians, _malchik_?”

Prompto, wide eyed, nods.

“Aah,” Asmund bemoans, heavy hand squeezing consolingly on Prompto’s shoulder. “Raised as a Lucian as well, I see! But you know of the Nifleim ways! The sayings! Someone has taught you off your heritage, yes?”

Ignis actively looks confused, eyes darting between Prompto and the much larger man. Carefully, feeling mildly claustrophobic, Prompto says, “Uh, my next door neighbour’s from Nifleheim. He taught me some stuff. Think he was a political prisoner at one point.”

“Aye,” Asmund sighs. “There were many, so long ago. Less so, now. Those that remain in the Empire know that to speak up is to condemn not only themselves, as it was before, but their entire family. It is not so easy to resist, now. Not as easy as it was in my youth.”

“I would not have called your actions easy, Ser Asmund. Your exile did not leave you without injuries, if I recall.”

Asmund laughs, holding out his right hand which, at a closer look, is missing three fingers. “This tiny thing? ‘Tis nothing. But enough about me! While this boy here might have been raised to believe himself Lucian, I, and those that have come with me, can recognise our own people. He is Nifleim, just as I, just as Kili over there. Why, he is the spitting image of many of the boys I knew in my youth.” And his left hand leaves Prompto’s shoulder to ruffle through his blonde hair, absolutely decimating Ignis’ careful handiwork just hours ago.

A Crownsguard bleeds out of the darkness at Ignis’ shoulder, grabbing the advisor’s attention. “Lord Scientia, Lady Monica asks what is happening with the entertainment.”

Ignis goes still, then curses softly under his voice. “Ah, yes, forgive me, please tell her I shall find a suitable replacement post-haste.”

“The piano?” Asmund frowns, the instrument still empty of someone to play it. “Ah yes, that nasty business with the young man. Say, young Prompto, did you not say you have been learning the art for some time?”

What? Ignis is _staring_ at him. “What?” Prompto verbally repeats. “ _No_! Not that well! I’m never getting it right. My neighbour says I play worse than a man with no fingers!” And then, remembering the fact that Asmund _is actually missing fingers_ , Prompto panics and blurts out, “Not that there’s anything wrong with not having fingers! I mean- uh- _Six_ -”

“No worse than there being no music,” the Nifleheim delegate thankfully cuts through, even though what he’s saying is _absolutely_ not helpful. “And if your neighbour is the same that has taught you Nifleim phrases, then take his criticism with a hair’s toss of salt. We are known for so rarely giving out praise.”

(“He adores you,” the Tenebraen woman that lives above him had said, expression amused after yet another rant of Valter’s had raised a noise complaint. “Don’t let his huffing and puffing tell you otherwise. Old Nifleim coots like him are all steam and no fire.”)

Prompto, quite certainly, thinks, _I am absolutely NOT going to play the piano_.

And then next thing he knows Ignis is dragging him onto the _goddamn_ piano.

“ _Prompto_ ,” he hisses, leaning in close to his ear so no one else can hear the _threat_ dripping off it. “I do not care _one bit_ if you play Shiva’s Little Star or a rendition of Ifrit’s howls from the very pits of Hel itself, you will _play_ something and you will _play_ it _well_.”

“I can’t _play anything_ ,” he whisper-wails, eyes landing on a confused Noctis squinting at him from the centre of the crowd. _Help_. “Ignis, _why_ -”

“Because the ex-Commodore for some _blasted_ reason believes you can and is _pressing_ for it and we cannot afford to seem unwilling. Just because the agreement has been signed does not mean it cannot be rescinded. Prompto-” Ignis closes his eyes, inhales deeply, then exhales, suddenly looking more calm, more in control. “Prompto,” he tries again, his grip on Prompto’s bicep loosening slightly, no longer a death grip. “Tell me, seriously, if you believe you cannot play the piano- ah!” He interrupts, holding a hand to stop Prompto from speaking. “If you cannot play the piano _passably_. I do not care if you cannot play to the likes of composers long dead, what I care is if you can play _passably_ to at least get us through this night. Even if it is a piano rendering of one of your animated cartoon songs.”

Prompto swallows, nerves making him jittery, and slowly says, “I’ve never played for anyone before.”

Ignis’ expression softens, ever so slightly. “Is your neighbour, your teacher, good?”

Nodding, Prompto says, “He’s amazing.”

Ignis nods in return. “Then I have no doubt that you too shall be amazing.”

The advisor doesn’t leave him at the pedestal though, choosing to actually sit by him on the piano’s stool, despite no doubt having tons of stuff to do elsewhere. Prompto swallows thickly, fingers shaking nervously where they hover over the keys. Everything aside from where they are on the raised platform has suddenly gone quiet, as if nothing else exists aside from him and Ignis. He _knows_ they’re there, though, can feel their eyes on him, their whispers, people wondering why exactly he’s just awkwardly sitting at the piano.

He sees something out of the corner of his eyes, pale blonde hair and a large frame- there, Ser Asmund, expression sharp and focused, directly on them. He’s with his delegates again, and as he watches, he sees Asmund turn to his group and shake his head ever so slightly.

Ignis has gone equally ever so slightly stiff, and demands Prompto’s attention with a gloved hand gently touching his own. “Ignore them,” he says firmly, and then, apologetic, adds, “Perhaps I, myself, should have done so also. Forgive me, Prompto, it seems I have been far too forward and placed you in a–”

“No,” Prompto interrupts, something resolving inside him, just like that morning years ago he’d seen Noctis and had decided _enough is enough, today I’ll say hi_. “I’ll do it. Just-” he inhales shakily, squeezes his hands and opens them up again, does it a few times, extends his fingers and wiggles them around. “Don’t hate me if I mess up, ‘kay?”

Ignis’ eyes bore into him for a moment, taking him in, seeing something (though what, Prompto can’t guess. Maybe the fact that despite the bravado, Prompto’s scared shitless? Probably.) Whatever it is, it makes Ignis hum slightly, lips pulling up in the slightest smile, and suddenly his expression is warm, and dare Prompto think it, fond?

“Truly,” Ignis says fondly (fondly???), “I doubt I ever could. Very well, then. Regale us, Sir Argentum.”

And Prompto thinks of Valter, telling him to stop pussyfooting around and just get to it in the early days. Think of entire days spent in an elderly Nifleim’s apartment and the fact that his parents had never really cared. Thinks about Nifleim cookies and the Tenebraen lady upstairs taking pity on them both and forcibly breaking in to bring them something to eat. Thinks about how he hasn’t seen his parents in about six months now, and the last time he’d seen them for longer than 24 hours had been when he was maybe thirteen.

He wiggles his fingers one more time, inhales deeply, and chooses his song.

And then, he plays.

#

“Akh,” Valter grumbles, wincing where he sits. “Today no good. Damn rain. Makes old bones hurt.”

Prompto, maybe twelve, maybe eleven, watches as the elderly man gets up off the piano stool, stumbling towards the comfortable sofa. Valter falls onto it, relaxing back into it with an explosive sigh. “You okay?”

“You shush,” Valter responds briskly, shooting him a quelling look. “I am not so old as to need sympathy from a young upstart like you. Now play. From the top!”

Pursing his lips grumpily, Prompto grumbles under his breath as he returns to the piano, wiggling his fingers to work out the kinks. He’s been playing since morning, Valter dragging him out of sleep citing that only Ifrit’s minions sleep _in_ on a weekend. _Discipline favours the early riser, you brat!_

“What is this song, anyway?” He huffily asks, turning to look back at the old man.

Pain is obvious in his expression, worn hands massaging at the knee that always makes Valter limp. “An old song,” the Nifleim says dismissively. “One I wrote. Never got to play. Perhaps for the best. I would not have escaped the Empire with just a bad knee if I had.”

Prompto’s eyebrows are high, and his mouth is open. “You _wrote_ this? Like- like _composed_ it? _And_ you escaped the Empire?”

Valter huffs at his excitement, waving a hand at him in his favoured method of telling Prompto to shut up. “Too loud!” He complains, which is an absolute lie, because _he’s_ the one that gets noise complaints, not Prompto. “So what if I escaped the Empire? Many have. Not a new story.”

“But you _wrote_ this,” Prompto presses eagerly, fingers itching to play the keys out again, to hear the music Valter had made. “Have you written others? Did you play them a lot? Were you- _are_ you, like, _famous_?”

Valter’s expression grows grim with every expression, until suddenly he’s sitting up, face serious. “I am no one of import, boy.” He says grimly, staring Prompto down. “Just an old man, a fool who thought he could fly too close to the sun. And now here I am, away from home, old and alone.”

“You’re not alone,” Prompto blurts out, “You have me.”

A strange expression crosses over Valter’s face, there and gone, and then the old man is actually grinning helplessly at him. “Akh,” he says, shaking his head in fake disgust. “You are- you are too sweet. Like caramel spun over apples. You shall be eaten alive in school, boy.”

Prompto doesn’t understand him (won’t until he’s thirteen, or fourteen, and being shoved into dirty puddles by boys older than him), but beams regardless.

“Now enough,” Valter huffs, rapping his cane against the piano’s legs. “From the top. We must make use of the light.”

And so Prompto does. From the top.

#

The last note rings in the air, lone but not lonely. It echoes gently, tremors as it quietly dies off, and silence moves in to replace it.

Quietly, Ignis sits, eyes closed and expression lax, peaceful. Once the silence has pervaded for a time, he opens them, blinking slowly back into the presence. A light splattering of clapping floats into the air, individuals dressed to the nine clapping in expensive gloves at the music, and more importantly, the one that had played it.

Prompto sits as still as a stone besides him, fingers still poised over the keyboards. His expression had been so focused, directly on the keys, usually sharp eyes distant as his fingers moved instinctively in an arrangement no doubt practiced endlessly until perfected into the wonderful score Ignis hears today. Now the anxiety returns, tightening the corners of Prompto’s eyes, taking away the calm confidence the young man had been displaying just moments ago.

Ignis mourns it, for a moment. Then feels pride grow in his breastbone, the same pride that follows the occasional bouts of nostalgia he holds for a younger Noctis, the one that had been quiet and shy and hid behind Ignis’ bulk. Or the Gladiolus that had trailed after Ignis like a lost duckling so long ago, in awe of all the things Ignis had to do to keep their joint charge on schedule.

“That was beautiful,” Ignis murmurs quietly, too quietly for anyone else to hear, meant entirely for Prompto and Prompto alone. “Truly, Prompto. An excellent performance.”

The boy’s cheeks go red, bright against his pale skin, and his eyes (and fingers, Ignis notes) skitter away at the praise. “I’m pretty sure I messed up in the middle there,” he disagrees, waving off the commendation like he always does. Incapable of taking even the slightest hint of praise, this boy. “It was nothing.”

Ignis ducks his head, forces eye contact, holds it steadily with his own. “Prompto,” he says seriously, demanding the boy listen to him. “Have you ever known me to lie? Or to exaggerate?”

The blush deepens, a splotchy mess of red that makes Prompto look all off eleven, and it is as endearing as it is amusing. He only straightens up and breaks the eye contact once Prompto shakes his head in answer and doesn’t try and downplay his achievement.

“Then I believe you have done excellently. And would you look at that,” he continues, glancing at his pocket watch, gently placing it back in his pocket once done. “It would seem that it is about time the evening drew to a close.”

He places his hand on Prompto’s back, feeling the way the young teen slumps in relief at his words. Lips pulling upwards against his control, he ushers Prompto to stand, and then gently murmurs from behind a glove how to bow in front of the waiting crowd. The resulting clapping is gratifying for Ignis, a sure sign of approval for Prompto’s excellent musical talent, but knowing full well that it does not agree with the boy he ushers him down the raised podium quickly, and with a glance at Gladiolus attempts to shepherd him towards a joint exit.

Attempt being the keyword.

Ser Asmund Dramver appears in front of them like a storm, shadowed by his entourage, expression stormy. He looms over them both, not just in stature but presence, and Ignis finds himself quietly pushing Prompto behind him before he even realises it. The ex-Commodore’s face is grim, but his eyes shine suspiciously wet.

“Who taught you that piece, boy?” The man rumbles, eyes only for Prompto over Ignis’ shoulder. “Where did you learn it?”

Behind him, anxious, Prompto answers, “Uh, my neighbour. Sir.”

Asmund takes an aborted step towards them, thinks better of it as Ignis’ posture stiffens, his own fingers curling in preparation for a dagger. He exhales, body folding in on itself when one of his compatriots, Sir Kili Norddvas, places a censoring hand on him. And then, to Ignis’ surprise, the ex-Commodore closes his eyes and _laughs_ , a broken, exasperated noise, and says, “Would you look at that. That old bastard is still alive.”

Before any of them can speak, King Regis’ cultured voice questions, “Is everything alright?”

Asmund stands, straightening where he is, and shakes his head. It’s a poorly controlled movement, echoing the way he does not even turn to look at the King, instead focusing on Prompto once more. “Is your neighbour, by any chance, a man named Valter?”

Ignis risks a glance behind him, sees Prompto’s eyes widen, his head nod, once, twice, a third time.

Even the ex-Commodore’s compatriots look shocked, exchanging glances and noises of surprise. Asmund, standing in front of them, booms another laugh, chest shaking, and turns to his countrymen with a loud, far more pleased, “You hear? The bastard lives yet!”

It is Ser Kili that questions, “But how? The prison had completely exploded. Lillistrom said there was no sign of him. Where he is?” He asks Prompto, eyes wide. “Valter? Crotchety old bastard? You said he’s your _neighbour_?”

Asmund is still laughing, a touch of hysteric in his voice as he holds onto Ser Valrid, who looks equally befuddled when Prompto nods meekly in answer.

“Forgive us,” Asmund gasps out, struggling to calm himself. “Forgive us, King Regis, ah,” he chuckles, pulls out a handkerchief to dab at his face, chuckles helplessly again, and then finally composes himself. “Fortunes favours us on this day, oh King of Lucis, for it seems you have granted us a great boon.”

King Regis frowns politely, clearly not aware of what boon, exactly, he's granted. Ignis has no answer for him either, though he’s beginning to connects the dots slowly, still missing crucial pieces of information. Prompto’s neighbour, an individual who hails from Nifleheim, and the one who had taught him how to play the piano. And Ser Asmund and his party, clearly somehow recognising the piece, and attributing it to this named individual, Valter.

Also the fact that Ignis had not recognised the piece. Could not, despite his lessons into high culture, name the wonderful arrangement’s composer.

“As you know,” Asmund explains, cheeks still pulled into a mighty, yet wobbly, smile. “There is a resistance within the Empire. It is not as strong nor as organised as it was before – the Empire has choked any and all possible dissent within its immediate borders – but exist it still does. It was at its strongest, ah, lets say twenty years ago or so, when its leader was still prolific, and able bodied. No one but the highest ranked within the resistance knew of the man’s identity, at least not until he’d been betrayed and subsequently arrested. He was charged with treason, and his punishment was to be the death penalty.”

Asmund laughs, raises his hand, the one that is bereft of a few fingers, and says, “Imagine my surprise when I am brought in front of the Emperor himself, and charged alongside said leader; for of course I would be aware of my older brother’s traitorous ways, would I not?”

Noctis, suddenly at King Regis’ side, inhales sharply. He is not the only one.

“Ah,” Asmund sighs, somehow actually sounding _fond,_ “I was _furious_. My stupid brother, stupid, stubborn Valter, at it again with his ridiculous ways. He always got me into trouble, that bastard. And now here I was, about to get my fingers cut off because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut and stick to his damn piano.”

“Valter?” King Regis frowns, eyes squinting in thought before widening in realisation. “Valter Dramver? The famous composer of Nifleheim? The one that had been taken as a political prisoner and was assumed dead?”

Asmund laughs, and next to him, Ser Kili snorts as he shakes his head in wonder. “That was the story the Empire fed to the rest of the world.” The shorter red head says. “It would be too damning if the world were to realise that Valter saw fit to lead a resistance right under the upper classes nose.”

“Wasn’t the resistance headquarters right in the very basement of the National Theatre?” Ser Valrid, obvious by the huge beard he meticulously takes cares of, asks incredulously.

“Aye!” Lady Intriva laughs, silver white hair coming artfully loose from her high bun. “And the very staff of the Theatre were resistance members themselves!”

“I must confirm it with my own eyes,” Asmund chortles, though he calms and dips his head respectfully to King Regis. “I request, with your leave, that I be allowed to see this individual, and confirm if it is, indeed, my brother.”

King Regis eyes them all, reading them with the shrewd observance of a King, and finally shares a look with his Shield, Lord Amicitia. Ignis watches the conversation pass between them both, keeping his own body in front of Prompto, though, were he to be honest, it’s now less because he feels the boy needs protecting and more just for his own peace of mind. Finally, King Regis turns his attention to the Nifleim party, gaze momentarily alighting on Prompto behind Ignis’ shoulder before returning to Asmund.

“Very well,” the King decrees with a solemn expression. “However, I’m sure you’ll understand when I request some of my Crownsguard accompany you. For… all party’s safety, as you are well aware.”

None of the Nifleim party look surprised. Asmund, their nominated spokesman, nods in acceptance for them all.

And that, Ignis gathers with finality, is that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The piano piece Prompto plays is obviously [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4fvo_iOuSck) because a) the evil within and b) kids on the slope. Imagine the whiplash I suffered when I heard the same piano piece in two _drastically_ different stories.
> 
> also, why is gladio shirtless when picking up prompto? nobody knows. nobody shall ever know.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and here's the last chapter! thank you guys so much for reading! this was a fun break from the Iron Man Big Bang (which I'll be posting soon!!!11!!!) and one I really enjoyed! Definitely thinking of playing more in this fandom. Stay safe everybody, and if you enjoyed it or have any constructive criticism, leave a comment! It makes my day.

Things happen quickly once the King has given his permission.

Noctis, only ever quick on the uptake if he deems it worthy of his attention, turns murderous when it becomes apparent that he cannot join the soon to set off party. It only settles when Ignis gives him a disapproving look and slots himself closer to Prompto, to which Noctis replies with a belligerent frown, yes, but a belligerent frown followed by a conceding nod.

Lord Clarus catches their unspoken negotiation, reads it with the long experience of a suspicious father, and only dignifies it with the smallest of eye rolls in acceptance.

Good, Ignis thinks, it’s decided then. He shall accompany the party.

He places a hand in between Prompto’s shoulder blades, directing him towards the rooftop’s exit. Prompto folds in on himself, making himself as small as he can go. He looks a shade away from passing out, the poor boy, and Ignis scolds himself once more for not preparing him for this side of Noctis’ life. He’d thought three years too soon for the boy to end up in such situations, had even initially thought their friendship would never reach a point where Noctis would even think to drag Prompto directly into the Citadel, and yet-

He should have known.

Hindsight is indeed, as Prompto had said, half way down a coeurl’s throat.

(He’ll have to brush up on his regional idioms, he reminds himself vaguely.)

They’ve reached the ground floor, Marshall Leonis joining them with a handful of Crownsguard at his back. Prompto goes paler – a feat Ignis had thought not possible – at the sight of them, and squeaks, “Now? Holy shit, _now?_ ”

“No time like the present, I believe.” Ignis replies quietly, nodding his head in deference to the Immortal.

But Prompto’s not satisfied. “No, holy _shit_ , no. Iggy, this is _insane_. If the Crownsguard _with the Immortal_ , turn up in my neighbourhood, it’ll cause a damn riot! The Crownsguard! In my neighbourhood! I practically live in the Niff area, Iggy!”

Ah, yes. That accursed moniker.

Ignis holds back the irritation that swells at it, the truth of the hidden injustice in Insomnia’s belly not being so hidden a sore point. But… Prompto _does_ have a point. He is not so blind as to see the discerning lack of diversity amongst the Crownsguard, or how almost the entirety of the Kingsglaive force is compromised of non-Lucians. Galahdians, mostly, with the next majority being those of Tenebrae.

If the Crownsguard, all of whom are born and bred in Insonmia proper, appear at the very border of Viridus, even if technically Prompto’s address is in Providence, it will not… look good.

Marshall Leonis pulls a face, turns to Lady Monika at his shoulder and says something quietly. The Crownsguard disperse, leaving behind only the Marshall. “We’ll have some ‘glaives with us by the exit.”

And they do. Three Kingsglaive idle next to two of the royal vehicles, enough to fully transport their party. The Nifleim’s number four, three business entrepaneurs and the one ex-Commodore they trusted. Those of Insomnia number six – Prompto and Ignis, and their security compromising of Marshal Leonis and three Kingsglaive.

Prompto remains pale.

“This is _insane_ , Ignis,” he whispers to him, both of them seated in the back with one of the ‘glaives. Another drives with Marshal Leonis in the passenger seat. “What if it’s not the guy they’re looking for? What if it turns out to be a completely random old man?”

“Then it shall merely be a case of mistaken identity.” Ignis replies soothingly, though he very much doubts that shall be the case. “Remember, they asked for his name, and _you_ confirmed it. It is _them_ that have initiated this, not you. If this gentleman does indeed turn out to not be the person they believe so, it shall not reflect poorly on you, but _them_.”

“Relax, kid,” Cor Leonis says from the front. “It’ll be a quick in and out.”

Ignis sighs when Prompto does the complete _opposite_ of this. He can’t even blame the boy – he himself had almost stuttered his way into an early grave when he’d first met the _Immortal_. And at least he’d been well educated beforehand. Prompto? He can’t even imagine what Prompto must be going through.

Insomnia sparkles around them, the nightlife alive and plentiful as they drive through it’s streets. The skyscrapers fade away into shorter, fatter buildings. They too change again, turning more residential, well kept homes bleeding away into apartment complexes. There’s a clear progression of the quality of life as they drive towards the outer edges of the city, clean roads becoming more littered, civilians out and about for fun becoming more harried workers rushing to and fro, and even that turning to the homeless huddling at dark corners.

Providence is not a bad area, Ignis reminds himself. Certainly not after he’d made sure to confirm it with his own eyes rather than believe what the borough’s Mayor has told him. But it is not a bad area _in comparison_ to the other areas, the pessimistic side of him says. Compared to Viridus – _the Niff area_ – or to Solaire; more widely known as _Little Galahad_. He still hasn’t gotten to the bottom of _why_ , exactly, the Argentum’s decided to move to Providence, especially considering the fact that they still own the property in Sylleblossom Avenue, but he’s been leery about asking Prompto directly, lest the boy think it’s further probing into whether or not he’s a suitable friend for the Prince.

Prompto’s apartment building, at least, is well maintained. It’s a quaint five story building, managed by a landlord that’s inherited it from her own family. Prompto lives on the fourth floor, in a two bedroom apartment – one master bedroom for his parents, the other for him. Ignis had… _procured_ … the blueprints early on when it had become apparent Noctis was particular about the boy, and had shared it with Gladio.

That doesn’t mean that either of them will ever actually _allow_ Noctis to come to this area of Insomnia, certainly, but Ignis has come to learn that it’s never too late to be proactive about these sorts of things.

Heaven forbid Noctis actually _listens_ for once and doesn’t just ditch them to go _anyway_.

He leads the way out of the car once it’s parked, Prompto scrambling out behind him. From the other car exit their foreign guests, all of them peering up at the apartment building in visible curiosity. Already, their party is garnering attention, the very few individuals outside staring at them, curtains flickering in windows and shutting close again.

One of the Kingsglaive nods at Ignis, tilting his head towards the entrance. Ignis takes the cue and directs Prompto to the building, following him when Prompto takes point. The photographer bypasses the elevator – _OUT OF USE_ , it reads, just like it has every other time Ignis has seen it – and takes the stairs two at a time. At a clearing of Ignis’ throat, Prompto startles and sheepishly slows down, waiting for the gathering to catch up to him past the first flight of stairs.

It’s a silent affair to the fourth floor, Ignis’ phone vibrates against his thigh, and Prompto’s hands keep drifting to his own before startling up again – Noctis, blowing up both their phones with impatient messages, no doubt.

Once they reach the fourth floor, Prompto hovers in between two doors, uncertain and anxious once more. “This is my door,” he says, waving a hand at the one on the right. “And, uh, this is my neighbour. But!” His expression tightens, grim determination warring with obvious fear. “I don’t think it’s, like, fair, if all of you just barge in. Even if he _is_ the person you think he is, maybe he, like, doesn’t _want_ to see you. So, uh,” the bravery wilts out of him, short-lasting, and feebly, Prompto pleads, “Can I talk to him? First?”

Cor frowns, about to say something, when the door on the left is thrown open with enough force to hit the wall and bounce back. An old man, hair and eyebrows pure white, slams a hand against the door before it bounces into his face, and glowers directly at Prompto.

“Boy!” He demands, raising a cane and shaking it. “Do you know what _time_ it is? You are always out, wasting time doing god knows what. You must sleep! You have work tomorrow! Only _vishlaks_ are out this late!” The man’s gaze alights on Cor, lips upturning into a sneer, and they trail over the Kingsglaive and Ignis. The sneer remains as he clicks his tongue and says, “Akh! And who are _they_? No worry,” he directs at Cor, “You can leave now.”

Cor looks uncomfortable, expression at odds with the usual blankness he’s known for. Prompto groans, hiding his face behind his hands, and almost too quietly to hear goes, “Oh my _gods_ , Valter.” It sounds almost remarkably like a kid being embarrassed by their parent.

(Like Ignis’ uncle delighting in spreading the rumours that Ignis was King Regis’ illegitimate son, hence why he’d popped up out of nowhere with the role of the Crown Prince’s Advisor. Even now, at the oddest of times, the rumours surge into activity once more, and Ignis can never figure out what exactly _triggers_ them.)

((“He’s pretty much my brother,” Noctis blithely answers yet another socialite. “Pretty sure dad would give him the throne if he could.”

He pretends not to notice the socialite running off to eagerly chatter with other socialites, or the way Ignis’ eyes pinch in harried confusion as yet another servant bows extra low and calls him _Your Grace_. He definitely pretends not to trade a secretive high five with Lord Scientia, but if Regis catches them and gives them both yet another lecture on pranking Ignis and a long-suffering look? Well, it’s not like _Regis_ does anything to dissuade the rumours, does he?))

A boisterous laugh comes from behind them, Ser Asmund shouting, “Valter, you bastard! I see you still don’t know how to speak politely with the authorities!”

The man named Valter straightens, eyes widening as he catches sight of Asmund towering over the entire party. His eyebrows furrow, followed by his eyes squinting at the ex-Commodore as Admund shoulders forward to the front, beaming. Valter, meanwhile, is absolutely not beaming.

“Oh.” He huffs, unimpressed. “So you live. Yes. I did hear you ran off to Altissia with your _pvlak_ between your legs.”

Prompto _squeaks_ , mortified, face turning a bright red as the Nifleim party roar into laughter, Asmund’s own face turning offended.

“I _ran_ to Altissia because _you_ threw an entire goddamn resistance in my lap without even a thank you!” Asmund huffs back, throwing his hands in the air. “Why did I even think to be happy that you were alive? You’re just as grumpy as you’ve ever been!”

“Akh,” Valter spits at the ground, thankfully not _actually_ spitting. “Didn’t even keep the resistance going. Broke down it did. Useless.”

Asmund splutters, remarkably looking very much like a little brother being scolded, and apparently the rest of the Nifleim party must think so as well since they look to be _loving_ it.

“You’re just as cranky as always, Valter,” Lady Intriva crows, shoving forward to hug Valter, who pulls a face and very unwillingly pats her on the back. “And that pleases me greatly! Come! We must talk! Catch up! If that is acceptable, Marshal Leonis?”

Cor grimaces, exhaling wearily and shrugging. “Fine,” he says, indicating his head at Valter’s apartment. “We’ll keep watch.”

“And why would I want to speak to any of _you_ ,” Valter grumbles, but he makes no move to get out of Lady Intiva’s hold as she starts pushing him towards the open apartment. “Ah- Ifrit’s dimpled _sack_ , woman, get your claws off me! I know where my own home is! And you!” He spins to face Prompto, cane held high to point directly at him. Prompto squeaks. “Do not think I don’t see what you did. Somehow bringing _these imbeciles_ to my door! For years I had peace and quiet! And now they’re here! Headaches, the lot of you!”

Asmund says something in Nifleim, placing a large hand on Prompto’s head and ruffling it. Valter snaps something back, just as he smacks his cane against Asmund’s hand, forcing it off Prompto’s head. The younger brother’s eyebrows rise consideringly, as do the rest of the Nifleim party, and slowly, a wicked smile crosses over Asmund’s face.

Valter looks uncomfortable at it, covering it up by hitting Asmund with his cane repeatedly, herding the quickly bruised man into his apartment, followed by the rest.

Cor moves to follow along with two of the Kingslaive, but Valter gives them the _dirtiest look_ Ignis has ever seen directed at an individual and shuts the door in Cor’s face.

Prompto looks five seconds away from fainting at the old man’s audacity.

“… Right.” Cor finally says, still staring at the shut door. “Guess we’ll wait out here, then.”

#

“Prompto,” Ignis asks a few moments later, after taking off his shoes and accepting the slippers Prompto provides him. “Forgive me for prying, and certainly, if you do not wish to answer I will absolutely understand, but…”

Prompto carefully places the tea set in front of him, along with the rather quaint assembly of biscuits that Ignis enthusiastically studies. “Let me guess,” he guesses wryly, “You’re curious why the ex-Commodore is so sure I’m a Niff.”

Ignis smiles tightly, pushing aside the small flare of shame that springs up. “I assure you,” he promises, voice low, “I ask as a friend to know you better. No other reason.”

Prompto smile is wobbly and uncertain, though not particularly surprised. He looks like he’s been expecting it, like he’s been shoring up his defences, and Ignis would not be surprised if the boy thinks that this is what’ll end his friendship with the Prince.

(Ignis stamps down the growing shame that, just a year ago, it absolutely _would have._ )

“You know I’m adopted, right?” He starts, sitting down at his own seat on the table with his own cup of tea. “My parents are Lucians, and my paperwork is too. But, uh, I was like four or something when they adopted me. My parents say the orphanage don’t have a clue where I came from, that I just turned up at their door one day with nothing to my name.” His eyes dip away, catching on something, remembering the conversation, perhaps.

(A tell, actually, of the lie he’s just told. He’d turned up at the orphanage one day with nothing _monetary_ to his name, definitely, but the barcode that stands harshly against the paleness of his skin is damning, and the theories surrounding it even more so.)

“But, like, my parents both have black hair, y’know? And black eyes, for that matter. They’re not pale like I am, they tan when under the sun, whereas I just burn like a lobster. So it’s obvious I’m not biologically _theirs_ , y’know. And, uh…”

It’s obvious he’s not Lucian, either.

“Yeah,” Prompto laughs, clearly reading Ignis’ expression. “Took me a while to realise kids were picking on me not ‘cus I was adopted but because I was obviously a foreigner. Pretty dumb, right?”

Ignis tightens his hand around his own cup, inhaling the lovely brew to give himself something to focus on. He can only imagine the sort of antagonism Prompto would’ve gone through, for even if Ignis’ family line originate from Tenebrae, the Crown – and every worker within the Citadel – treat Ignis like he belongs. Because he’s never had to believe he _doesn’t_.

But now the dots were connecting. “You’re lighter colouring does indeed put you as more likely originating from Nifleheim,” he hums, taking a sip and delighting in the burst of flavour. Spicy, just like its scent. Cinnamon? And is that… Cardamom? Fascinating. He’d never known cardamom could be used in tea. “Though personally I would not be shocked if you were Tenebraen, either.”

Surprise flits across Prompto’s face. “Really?”

Ignis smiles, a small thing, amusement crossing his face as he peers at Prompto over his glasses and says, “Have you forgotten how Lord Ravus and the Lady Lunafreya look? Dare I even say, you could arguably pass as either of their siblings, where you to stand side by side.”

He chuckles at the way Prompto blushes at that, amused at the photographer’s embarrassment, but he wasn’t particularly lying. Tenebrae, situated right between the warring nations of Nifleheim and Lucis, reflects their location with their people. Ignis himself would not pass as a native of Insomnia, and his accent most definitely reflects that. He doesn’t remember much of his preliminary years growing up in the Scientia Manor, but whatever of it he _does_ remember has stuck with him in the form of his mannerisms and attention to detail.

That, and mother does oh so charmingly love to remind him in increasingly stern letters to uphold the Scientia name less he embarrass them.

“But I suppose living in this area of the city would make others see you more as a possible Nifleim than a Tenebraen,” Ignis considers, taking a delicate bite of one of the biscuits. Sweet, almost buttery. Tenebraen, perhaps? Fascinating. “Your neighbour then assumes you are Nifleim?”

Prompto shrugs, taking one of the biscuits himself and nibbling on it. “Everybody does,” he answers, “Nobody’s ever thought I could be Tenebraen. Honestly, at this point neither do I. I probably am a Niff, you know. You don’t really come across Tenebraen orphans.”

That… is indeed true. Ignis nods, running the statistics in his mind that confirm it. Orphans from Nifleheim were far and plentiful, brought in by families escaping the Empire and others that had gotten caught in the crossfire. Galahad had had a sizeable population of Nifleim’s, Ignis remembers, and the best estimate of how much had escaped from the burning island numbered around three percent.

With all the information available, Prompto isn’t wrong to assume he’s Nifleim. And neither is his neighbour. Even if it were to become apparent that he _isn’t_ , Ignis mind tells him, having someone close to the crown prince that is knowledgeable to the kingdom’s enemy would not go amiss.

“That’s your scheming face,” Prompto says, squinting at him. “Your evil scheming face.”

Ignis consciously straightens his face. “I do _not_ have an evil scheming face.”

“Yeah, dude, you absolutely do.” Prompto disagrees, lips quirking up. “What evil thing were you thinking?”

Clearing his throat, Ignis pushes his glasses up his bridge as he takes a sip of his drink. “This is a wonderful brew, Prompto. You must tell me where you got it from.”

He pointedly ignores Prompto’s laugh.

#

(“That boy,” Asmund says a door away, grimacing at the too minty taste of his tea. Blah, Valter’s horrible fixation with the damn _leaf_ hasn’t changed. “He’s the spitting image of Torvo.”

Valter throws him a dirty look, both of them ignoring the rest of their childhood friends raiding his kitchen in search of liquor. “That _boy_ ,” he huffs, “Is the spitting image of _wrong choices._ ”

“By befriending you, you mean?” Asmund shoots back, rolling his eyes, just as Intiva and their friends roar in triumph while holding up their loot.

Valter bites into a biscuit, similar to the one a door away that Ignis has started badgering Prompto about, and mulls over it as he chews. “Stupid _malchik_ ,” he finally says, shaking his head. “Giving this old fool even a minute of his youth, let alone years.”

“He speaks of you fondly,” Asmund censures, though he too suddenly looks old and weary, shoulders slumping. “He was willing to stand against two warring kingdoms to protect your autonomy.” Asmund stares at him, runs a considerate hand through his blonde hair in thought, and finally says, “He does not know, does he?”

The wristband the boy wears burns in Valter’s mind. Guilt clogs up his throat. His bad leg aches with old regrets.

He shakes his head.

“Perhaps for the best.” Agrees Asmund, massaging his fingerless hand, squeezing the phantom pains away.

They bow their heads together, cups of too-strong mint tea held in calloused hands, and pretend neither of them are thinking of Torvo; bright haired and bright eyed, hiding a damning barcode on his right wrist.

The spitting image of Prompto, indeed.)

#

Turns out, third time is _not_ the charm. Prompto is _still_ as much of a nervous wreck as the other two times Noctis has dragged him to a Citadel event. But now he’s also kinda pissed.

“ _Noct_ ,” he’s hissing, dipping his head to quietly rage into his best friend’s ear. “Ifrit’s _right tit_ , why did you _bring me here_?”

Noctis, being the absolute asshole that he is, just rolls his eyes, leaning against a pillar like he owns the place – which he _does_. “You did such a great job with the Niff party I figured you’d bless us with your luck for this too.”

Before them, in a magnificent room replenished in silvers and whites, delegates of Tenebrae wine and dine under the watchful gaze of the King. Women spin around with their partners in complicated dances that would break Prompto’s ankles, snatches of conversations float through the air, accents distinctly polished and familiar.

It’s like being surrounded by a hundred Ignis’, Prompto thinks, wild-eyed.

It makes him _extra_ terrified.

“Just _chill_ ,” Noctis lectures him, rolling his eyes _again_. “If you survived the Niffs, then you can survive the Tenebraens. If you mess up they’ll just eat you alive behind your back, anyway.”

Oh, yeah, because that’s _great_. Wonderful. _Fantastic_.

“I’m washing all your clothes with Gladio’s pink shirt.” He threatens. “Every single piece of clothes you own will be _pink_.”

Noctis turns to him, daring to look offended, opening his mouth to argue, when Ignis sweeps in with a pointed, “You will absolutely _not_ ,” and whisks Prompto away. It happens so fast Prompto blinks one moment to Noctis about to make Prompto commit regicide, and in the next blink he’s on the other side of the room, standing in front of an insanely beautiful woman with the kindest smile he’s ever seen.

“As you requested, my Lady,” Ignis says, shoving Prompto expertly into bowing. “Ser Prompto Argentum.” And then he _leaves_.

“Ah,” the woman beams, taking his hands in her own, squeezing them gently. “You must be Prompto! My husband Asmund has told me so much of you!”

Prompto splutters, tongue heavy in his mouth, and watches Ignis’ fancy tailcoats flutter away from him. That’s it. He hates them both. He hates _all_ of them.

Except Gladio.

Gladio’s great.

#

There’s a banged up piano in what used to be the restaurant in Leville. It’s been pushed to a corner to make space, has gathered dust from misuse, and probably doesn’t actually work anymore.

Not a lot of things work, three months into the Darkness.

Prompto trudges past it every single time.

He moves to do just that this time as well, tired and achy from yet another hunt that’s gone horrible wrong. The Iron Giants had been easy enough, even if there’d been three, but the sudden appearance of two Ronin had almost killed their party of four. Prompto had taken a straight hit to the ribs from one of the Giants’ club – he knows intimately he’s injured something in there, but so what? Potions are too rare to waste it on something that’ll heal on its own. He just has to suck it up and push through how much it fucking _sucks_ to breathe.

Maybe the ice cold showers the hotel solely offered would numb the pain. Now _there’s_ a thought.

“Don’t even think of a shower,” Gladio grumps next to him, equally exhausted, holding his right wrist gently from where he’d landed badly on it. “Straight to bed. Both of us. I’m not sleeping next to your freezing feet.”

It hurts to laugh, so Prompto wheezes, gently. Not his fault his feet can’t freaking warm up after an ice cold shower. He’s just making his way around another set of traumatised citizens, a family this time, a woman and a man huddled around two young children. His lips twist in a tired smile when he notices one of the kids looking at him, and feels a stab of guilt at the fact he can’t offer up more.

The entire restaurant's been turned into yet another sleeping area, every pocket of space filled with sleeping bags and what little belongings people had brought with them. The tables and chairs had been shoved into the kitchen, some moved out of the hotel to places that could use them, like the marketplace that now doubled as Hunter HQ.

They’ve lazily gone through the doors that belonged solely to the restaurant, cutting through to get to the hotel itself. Sleeping bags and sleeping people stretch out towards the reception area, covering every surface area save for the stairs. The piano looms in the corner as it’s always done, for some reason not having been moved yet, and-

Prompto stops.

A few steps after, Gladio realises he’s not following, and stops as well, turning back to grumpily say, “What now?”

In answer, Prompto points at the piano, usually untouched, now boasting one familiar man sitting on it’s stool.

Gladio turns to look, sees the man, and exhales a heavy sigh. They share a look, forego their need for the sweet oblivion of sleep, and make their way across the restaurant to the piano, and more specifically, to the man that sits at the piano.

“Ah,” Ignis receives them, tilting his head towards them in greeting. “I see you both had quite the workout, hmm? Anything I should be concerned about?”

Gladio huffs. “Nothing more than some bruised egos,” he answers.

“ _And_ some bruised ribs,” Prompto adds, “And a bruised wrist. Bruises all around, dude.”

Ignis’ lips quirk up, a small movement far removed from the full blown smirk he usually gives when amused. The Dark has stripped them all of a lot of things, but what had happened right before it had been what had truly hollowed them out.

Ignis losing his sight.

The days Prompto had been under Ardyn’s hold.

Failing as Shield the moment Noctis had been taken by the Crystal.

The Dark had just been the cherry on the cake, forcing them to move past it, to focus on fighting their way out of a neverending stream of daemons, to get to civilization, to _help_ civilization. Lestallum had taken their entire focus, then Hammerhead, then the outer areas. Setting up rotations to protect the beamlights, figuring out food sources, drafting up a means to maintain the peace.

Three months is not enough.

Prompto worries that even three years will not be enough.

(It’ll take five.)

Getting even the slightest twitch of Ignis is a hard earned success these days. It sets off a chain reaction – Gladio’s shoulders loosen, the tension bleeding out of them, and Prompto feels a weight he didn’t even realise was sitting on his chest lighten, making it easier to breathe.

“You should both rest,” Ignis suggests, face still tilted towards them. One of his hands glide over the piano keys in the lightest touch possible, not pressing on any of them. “Sleep while you can. I daresay you’ll both be back out there soon enough.”

He’s not wrong. Ignis would be too, if his logistics and ridiculously incredible self wasn’t _necessary_ for Lestallum to continue functioning. He’s well on his way to ruling the sanctuary with an iron fist, and barely gets any sleep himself. The shades cover up more than just the scarring, Prompto knows, they cover up his exhaustion as well.

“Looks like you could use some sleep yourself, Iggy,” Gladio snorts, reading Prompto’s mind. “Come on, come with us. We’ll cuddlepile like the old days, yeah?”

Ignis snorts, which makes Prompto grin widely and share a pleased look with Gladio. But the way Ignis’ hand still floats over the piano bothers Prompto, makes his brows furrow in confusion, makes him remember something from what feels like a hundred years ago-

_“For all my tutoring, learning a musical instrument was not one of them.”_

-“You want to play the piano?”

The hand jerks back from the piano, perfect posture turning rigid. It ripples across, Gladio’s lips pulling down in displeasure, the weight on Prompto’s chest returning tenfold again, making him feel sick.

“Nonsense,” Ignis coolly replies, hands primly folded on top of one another on his lap. “I was merely lost in thought. Morale in the city is low, you see.”

True, but also not true. Morale _is_ low, three months into the Dark, and not expected to rise. But it’s also not the reason Ignis is sitting at the piano.

“Surprised this thing is still here,” Gladio probes, sharing a look with Prompto, treading carefully in that way he’s perfected. “Wonder if it’s still working.”

Prompto suddenly feels the urge to test it out, to press one of the keys and see if it _is_ still working. In the exact same breath he feels a surge of bile rise up his throat, things he’s pushed down to the very bottom threatening to rise and overtake him. An elderly voice, gruff and raspy, shouting at him while ruffling his hair gently.

It had taken going to Altissia for Prompto to remember to worry about his parents.

“I would be surprised.” Ignis replies, sounding unbothered. “At the very least it shall need tuning. A waste of one’s time, no doubt. What use is a piano, during these difficult times?”

_Morale in the city is low_ , he’d said.

_What use is a piano_.

Ignis had been left behind, time and time again, to manage the city. Prompto and Gladio had gone out, time and time again, to fight for the city.

_Morale is low_.

Darkness hangs heavy every single minute, every passing hour, every day and week and month. It drowns them, strangles any hope that crops up, burrows into their minds and souls and turns them thin with grief.

( _“That was beautiful,” Ignis had murmured quietly after the last note had rung through the air. “Truly, Prompto. An excellent performance.”_ )

His eyes had been closed during the piece, Prompto remembers with a start. He’d looked at _peace_ , not stressed or perfectly in control or _busy_ – just enjoying the music with his eyes closed and his breathing even.

_What use is a piano_ , he’d said.

To someone blind? Probably _everything_.

He could be wrong, Prompto realises. He could be so absolutely freaking _wrong_ that it’s insulting. He could be opening a whole can of worms, doing what he’s thinking of doing. He could be setting fire on everything none of them have spoken about, on whatever the hell had actually happened in Altissia that had ended with Ignis blind and injured. On his own silence about what had happened after being thrown of a moving train. On the reasons behind Gladio’s damn near suicidal fighting in the darkness of eternal night.

He should think about it. Consider it. _Strategise_ , like Ignis loves to say.

Nope. His butt is already on the elongated stool, sitting next to Ignis, completely without his say so.

Ifrit’s asymmetrical _balls_ , guess he’s doing this.

He runs a hand across the keys, fanning the dust off as much as he can. Ignis is a stiff line next to him, from where Prompto had the audacity to press up flush against him, shoulder to hip to knee. It’s pretty much terrifying, being this close without permission, because Ignis will _absolutely_ stab him in the dick in retribution. Guy likes his personal space.

(Even more so, since the injury.)

“Actually,” he hears his mouth run off, completely bypassing his brain which is still stuck on memories of a well lit night, expensive flutes of champagne and Noctis being too rich for basic common sense. “You said morale’s low, right? Maybe a little tune will help. Music’s pretty much about expressing stuff right? And it’s free.”

Gladio snorts, which is the right response to the _stupid_ words coming out of Prompto’s mouth. “Free.” The big guy repeats, sounding like he’s biting back laughter.

Ignis, still stiff, turns his head ever so slightly to Prompto, not directly in his direction, but close. He doesn’t say anything, which, _naturally_ , makes Prompto’s mouth decide to _continue_.

“It won’t do _loads_ ,” he says, voice going high pitched as Gladio continues to smother his laughs unsuccessfully behind him. “But it might at least be good for the kids? And their parents? Especially if, like, someone did a calming tune or something. And then, hell, maybe at times something to liven the place up. Yeah, everything sucks right ‘bout now,” ain’t _that_ an understatement. Prompto winces at just how badly that does to cover _everything_. “But at least we still have music, right? And each other,” he adds on quickly. “Like, definitely each other, dude.”

A big hand settles on his right shoulder, squeezing gently – Gladio, no longer laughing. The Amicitia throws a leg over the stool, sits on the little space available, shoving Prompto into Ignis to get more. The stool’s not nearly long enough for even two of them, let alone _three_ , but it jars Ignis into movement, and his shoulders are suddenly less stiff despite being smushed up against Prompto even more than before.

The advisor sighs, posture relaxing ever so slightly – though nowhere near a slouch – as a small smile plays across his lips. “An excellent point, Prompto,” he says, surprising Prompto with his agreement. “One I should have considered. And would you look at that,” he waves a hand grandly at the piano, and then at Prompto. “We have just the person to play it.”

Prompto pauses, both hands over the keys (when had they gone _there_?).

“Don’t flake out on us now, blondie,” Gladio grins, eyes shining in a way Prompto hasn’t seen in ages.

Prompto throws him a dirty look before sighing in defeat and giving in. He has absolutely no one to blame but himself, he realises, and hell, Valter had warned him about this, hadn’t he? Hindsight, he’d say, is halfway down a coerl’s throat. Hindsight is telling him he should have kept his damn mouth shut.

“Fine,” he pouts, interlocking his fingers and stretching them to work out the kinks. His ribs ache, his throat is dry, and every part of his body feels bruised to kingdom come. But he’s warm, sandwiched between the Royal Advisor and the King’s Shield, and feels the slightest warm tendrils of stupid, out of place hope stir inside his breastbone. “Don’t hate me if I mess up, ‘kay?”

A smile stretches across Ignis’ face, the first since that fateful day, and it makes him look years younger. Prompto’s breath catches in his throat, he feels Gladio press up against him, on his right, equally bewitched, and they both stare as Ignis _smiles_ , honest to god _smiles_.

“Truly,” Ignis tells him fondly, “I doubt we ever could. Very well,” he concludes, sounding amused with a joke only he knows, “Regale us, Ser Argentum.”

It echoes, pinging off the same memory that’s fuzzy in Prompto’s mind. He can’t quiet put his finger on it, not the words anyway, but the emotion? The expression? That he remembers; from when Ignis had sat beside him on a similar piano stool, even though he must have been insanely busy, and encouraged him to play.

Breathing in deeply, with the closest thing to family on either side of him, Prompto exhales. He flexes his fingers, wiggles them one last time, and chooses his song.

And then, he plays.

**Author's Note:**

> the harp piece is [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TnYCW8eWqQo), played in fic by a Tenebraen women who is low-key not happy about Niffs being in Insomnia. I would've just posted the whole fic as a oneshot but I've been informed readers don't like having to slog through 13k fics, and this one is 16k, so 3 chapters it is!
> 
> as always, you can find me on tumblr [here](https://a-dakhtar.tumblr.com/)! I'm always down to clown.


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